


Until the next time

by bev_crusher1971



Series: Never let me down [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Couch Cuddles, M/M, No Sex for the Sheriff, Sub!Parrish, implied bad!dom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 13:40:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2231115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bev_crusher1971/pseuds/bev_crusher1971
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His dom got out of hand. That was bad but Parrish could handle it. What he had trouble dealing with was his boss seeing him like that. Hurt and bleeding. </p>
<p>John realized there was a lot more going on in Beacon HIlls than he ever wanted to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until the next time

**Author's Note:**

> While this bunny was entirely mine ... the beta was again done by my lovely Simone. *hugs* Thank you so much, dear.

The call came as Sheriff John Stilinski was just finishing his report. 

Night shifts were tiresome. Even more so when it was a quiet night. Like tonight. John tried to hide a yawn behind his hand, knowing that the only other Deputy at the station could see him. 

When his phone rang, he picked it up without looking at the caller ID. 

“Sheriff Stilinski, how can I help you?”

For a moment there was silence, then a male voice asked carefully, “Are you John?”

The Sheriff frowned, and asked back, “Who wants to know?”

“Oh, sorry, my name is Michael, Michael Ansly. I work at the 'Love and Leash Club' in Brooklyn Street. Do you now a Jordan Parrish?”

A shiver ran down John's spine, and it wasn't a good one. 

“Yes, he's one of my Deputies. Why, Mr. Ansly? Is something wrong?”

“Well, Sheriff, I'm afraid Jordan is in a pretty bad shape right now. He just had a scene, and apparently the dom left him … well, let's say, he doesn't feel so good. He wanted to go home but we can't let him go in his condition. And he doesn't want to go to a hospital. So when we asked him who to call he just talked about a guy named John, and that he could help him. And then we found this number in his cellphone.”

John's thoughts swirled in his head. Scene. Dom. Condition. All those words were confusing, and right now not necessarily comforting. 

But first things first. His Deputy was hurt, and needed him. He wrote down the exact address, and promised the man on the line that he would come immediately. When he hung up the phone, he sighed deeply, and drew his hand over his face. 

Then he got up, grabbed his coat, and left the office. 

“Got an emergency,” he told Deputy Haigh who was currently working on an old case. 

The young man looked up. “You okay going out alone?”

The Sheriff nodded. “Yeah, I think I can cover this up. I'll call when I know when I'll be back, okay?”

“Sure thing, Sheriff,” the Deputy nodded, and immersed himself again in his work. 

Closing the door quietly behind him, the Sheriff walked to his car, and started the engine. 

~*~

He hurt. 

Tears were slowly running down his face, and he was groaning quietly into the pillow that he had wrapped himself around. His back hurt from the whipping he had received, his ass hurt from the paddle, and he could feel his dom's cum trickle slowly out of his hole. And though he wasn't too sure about it … the slow trickle on his back could be blood. No, he was certain it was blood. He had seen Michael's and Alan's expression, had felt the towels they had pressed to his back. Had seen them come back red, and bloody. 

Damn, this really had gotten out of hand this time. Normally he could handle a little pain well but his dom-of-the-night had really done a number on his back. All he wanted to do now was go home, lick his wounds – so to speak – and be back in the office the next morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed. As always. But they wouldn't let him go. Alan was sitting at his side while Michael had disappeared some time ago. 

“Why won't you let me go?” he sighed. 

“You know why, Jordan,” Alan said gently, carefully stroking his shoulder. “Michael called your John. He'll be here any minute. He'll take you home, and then you can rest.”

John, he thought panicked. Oh dear god, please no. What would his boss think when he saw him like that? His boss was one of the few people Jordan really admired, and wanted to please. But what if he saw him like this? With his back beaten bloody, and his ass so sore that he had to lay on his side because sitting was definitely no an option right now. 

He closed his eyes, and hid his face in the pillow again. This has got to be a nightmare, he thought. 

~*~

John Stilinski didn't have to show his badge when he arrived at the club. A man in his thirties was already waiting for him, and opened his car door even before the engine was cut off. 

“John?” the man asked, and John nodded. The man sighed. “Thank god. I'm Michael. I called you.”

The Sheriff got out of his car, and reached out his hand. “Thank you for calling me, Mr. Ansly.”

Michael Ansly took his hand and shook it. “Call me Michael, please. I really wish we could have met under different circumstances. Jordan is inside in his room, and we really didn't want to let him go like that.”

John frowned. “Like what?”

The young man looked angry all of a sudden, and growled, “You'll see.”

John followed the man who was dressed in black leather pants, and a tight mesh shirt. He had no choice but to notice the incredible dragon tattoo that covered the whole back of the man. Broad shoulders, a narrow waist, strong arms. 

And a collar around his neck.

The moment they stepped through the door, Sheriff John Stilinski realized that there were things in his town that he had no clue of. Things he didn't want to have any clue of. Tall, muscled men were sitting at tables with other men or women kneeling at their feet. When they stepped through a curtain, John could see a large x-cross, padded with black leather, on what appeared to be a stage. Tied to this cross was a woman in her forties. Behind her was a man, swinging a flogger, bringing it down again and again on her back. She moaned, cried and sobbed. In front of her stood another women, holding her gently, whispering something into her ear. Every now and then the man with the flogger stopped, stepped close to her, kissed her shoulder, and stroked gently over the heated flesh of her back, before he moved back, and wielded the flogger again. 

Her shout cut into John's heart, and for a moment he was severely tempted to go over, knock that guy out, and cut the woman off. A hand on his arm startled him. Michael was smiling at him, following his gaze. 

“Listen, John, I know what it looks like but it's completely consensual, okay?”

“If you say so,” John murmured, not quite convinced. Whatever this … this club was … never before had he felt so out of his depth. 

Silently, he followed Michael through a hallway until they reached a door. The younger man knocked softly, and seconds later another man opened the door. 

“Michael, finally,” he sighed relieved, then his gaze went to the Sheriff, “you John?”

John nodded. “Thank god!” A hand shot out, grabbed his arm, and pulled him in. 

John almost stumbled but managed to keep upright. Then his gaze fell on Jordan, and everything he had wanted to say, vanished. 

Jordan Parrish was laying on his side, curled around a pillow, staring into nothing, clearly avoiding his gaze. But that wasn't what had startled him. There was blood seemingly everywhere in the room, a bloody whip on the floor, some bloody towels on the floor, a first aid kid on the bed. 

“What the hell happened here?” he asked without looking at the two men behind him. 

“It looks worse than it is, believe me,” the younger one answered quickly. “The dom got a little carried away, and didn't react to Jordan's safe word. We took care of him. But we can't let Jordan go home like this, and he refuses to go to a hospital.”

John carefully stepped closer to the bed, and sat down. He felt so incredible helpless. “Can I,” he felt a little like suffocating, and cleared his throat, “can I talk to him?”

“You a dom?” the younger man asked. Sheesh, hadn't he learned to use verbs? 

“No, but I am his boss,” John said slowly, putting a little emphasis on boss. 

“That's almost as good as a dom,” the young man sighed happily, “will you take him home? Look after him?”

Oh yes, John thought, *definitely* WAY out of his league. “What do I have to do?” he asked. 

Again it was Michael who jumped in to help him, put a hand on his shoulder. “I checked him over. The wounds aren't too severe. I can give you a salve that should be applied three times a day. And keep his back cool tonight. It'll help with the swelling. A wet towel is pretty helpful in a case like this. And he shouldn't be alone tonight. Usually he knows when to stop a dom but this time I have the feeling he didn't even try before it was too late.”

“This time?” John asked stunned. Had this happened before? How come he hadn't noticed?

“I'm afraid to say that Jordan, as much as I like him, has a really bad taste in doms. This isn't his first time that a dom is rough in a scene. But normally he can stop them in time. I don't know why he didn't this time.”

Jordan snorted from the his position on the bed but remained quiet otherwise. 

“But otherwise he's okay?” John asked. Just to be sure. Michael nodded. 

“Once his wounds are taken care of, you can bring him home. But as I said, don't leave him alone tonight.” 

Stiles was with Derek tonight so there was no way in hell that John would let the Deputy out of his sight. 

“Can I take him home now?” 

Alan and Michael nodded. 

Slowly, and softly, John put a hand on his Deputy's shoulder, and shook him gently. 

“Jordan? Come on, lets get you home.”

~*~

There was mumbling in the room, steps, whispered conversations. The Sheriff's voice was clearly recognizable to him. And suddenly he was flooded with shame. His boss shouldn't see him like this. So helpless. So stupid. So completely fucked up. 

And so hurt. 

Jordan blocked their little chat out, staring at a point at the wall. His skin felt cold. Why hadn't they let him go. He could handle it. It wasn't the first time after all. 

He heard Michael talking about his bad taste in doms, and couldn't quite contain a snort. Hell, yeah. He knew that, thank you very much. 

Suddenly someone was sitting down next to him, and he felt a hand on his shoulder. Warm. Strong. Burning through his skin, leaving an imprint in his bones. He barely suppressed a moan, still so sensitive after everything that had happened. 

“... get you home.” he heard. 

He wasn't thinking just acting on impulse when he turned away, hissing in pain. 

“I'm fine,” he murmured stubbornly, closing his eyes, trying to move even further away from the Sheriff's tantalizing warmth but the pain in his back stopped him. 

For a moment the hand vanished, then it came back, and he heard a quiet, “Yeah, I can see that. Come on. My car's up front. I'll look after your back. Or would you rather have Melissa take a look at you?”

The 'and let *her* chew you out instead of me!' didn't need to be said. Jordan knew Melissa. And compared to her, the Sheriff was a puppy. So while he wasn't sure if it was a joke or a threat he decided not to take the risk. 

He sighed, and mumbled, “Yeah okay, I'll come with you.”

~*~

An hour later John found himself on his couch with his Deputy spread out next to him who had his head on a pillow. John had put a cool, wet towel on the younger man's back, and the TV murmured softly as background noise. 

For a while they said nothing. John simply didn't know how to approach the subject why his deputy liked to go to a club to let himself be beaten until he bled. He had tried several times when the young man had been standing in front of him, naked, and he had very gently cleaned the wounds, had washed away the blood – and yeah, Alan had been right, it had looked worse than it actually was – and finally put some of the ointment on the worst wounds. 

Now they were here, seemingly both at a loss for words, with his Deputy's head dangerously close to his lap. And for one crazy second, John thought that he wouldn't mind the younger man's head *right on* his lap instead of just close to it. He thought for that one second how it would feel to run his hands through the dark blonde hair that looked so soft to the touch. 

“So, I guess you have questions?” Parrish's voice is slightly muffled with his face still half pressed into the pillow. 

“I … ah … yes, you can say that. But honestly … I don't know where to start.” Oh hell, he hated feeling so helpless. Clueless. 

“Don't you want to know why I go there?” Parrish sounded a bit surprised, and John barked out a short laugh. 

“I've seen what they do there. So technically I can understand why you go there. It's just … do you need the pain?”

A deep sigh and silence followed his question, and for a moment John was afraid he might have gone too far. Then Parrish spoke again. 

“It's not only about the pain,” he said softly, “it's more about the feeling of being … not helpless, but of being able to let go. The pain is just an added bonus.”

John snorted at that. A bonus? Parrish's quiet laughter told him that he had heard that snort, too. 

“Yeah, well, not much of a bonus tonight, I agree. But normally it doesn't get out of hand like ...that.”

He gestured at his back. 

“Do you need it?” John asked, surprising himself a bit with this question. 

“Not always,” Parrish mumbled into his cushion. “Just every now and then it's nice to let go.”

“To let go?” John repeated stunned. 

Parrish pulled the cushion a bit closer. “Yeah, to let go. Not be responsible for a change.”

Silence settled again between them. John tried to understand how someone could feel the need to get hurt just to let go. He thought back to when Claudia had still been alive. His way to let go had been to more or less crawl onto her lap, sometimes just staring into space, sometimes sobbing his heart out. She had been there for him. Had talked to him, petted him, kissed him, held him. It had been perfect for him. Never had he felt the need to put a whip in her hand and let her beat him. 

“You don't get it, right?” Parrish's voice broke through his thoughts.

“I try,” John answered truthfully, “I really try. Maybe … you can explain to me how such a meeting is supposed to go? You said, this time it got out of hand.”

Parrish made a content noise. “Normally,” he began, “it's fantastic. When the dom knows what he's doing, you're getting so high on endorphins you feel like flying.”

“And afterward you crash and burn,” John continued. Parrish tried to sit up at that but winced in pain when the movement put too much strain on his back. With a hiss he sank down again. 

“No,” he protested, “it's not like that.”

“But yet you're here, beaten and hurt.”

“Normally,” Parrish emphasized the word, “it's amazing. Afterward,” again more emphasis on this word, “he stays with me. Talks me down. Touches me, strokes me. Sometimes he even lets me … but I don't think you want to know that.”

Touching. Stroking. Things Claudia did for him. Things he could do for Parrish. 

“This one didn't?” he asked. 

Parrish grunted. “No. Beat me bloody, ignored my safe word, and the moment Michael crashed through the door, he dropped everything and ran. Coward.”

“So,” John stretched the 'o' a little, “how do you handle it when the … dom … just runs and leaves you hanging? So to speak.”

A sigh, this time a little deeper. “It's harder for me when there is no aftercare. I can handle the pain on my own but I feel … empty. For me the aftercare is just as important as the scene itself. It shows me that I made my Master proud. That I satisfied him.”

“Does the Master have to do the aftercare?” John really was curious now. This was a whole new world to him, and no one could call him narrow minded. Pain might not necessarily be his thing but it didn't mean that he wasn't willing to learn. 

“No, not necessarily,” Parrish answered. 

“And why didn't those two men who were with you, do the aftercare?”

This time Parrish laughed softly. “Alan and Michael? Oh, please. They are sweet, and all, but they're subs just like me. They wouldn't know how to give me what I need.”

“What *do* you need?”

This time, Parrish pulled himself up until he sat in front of John. His face was pale, and John knew that he had to be in pain. But for whatever reason, for this part of the conversation it seemed to be important that Parrish could look him in the eyes. 

“I need a strong presence,” he began quietly, “someone I can *believe* when he tells me that I've been a good boy. Someone who knows where and how to touch. How to calm me down. Someone who will say and do exactly the right things at the right time. Someone with authority. Someone who's used to lead.”

John swallowed, captured by the intense look in those green eyes. “That's a lot,” he finally managed. 

“No, it's not. Some people don't have to be a dom for possessing those traits. For being able to give that to another person.”

All of a sudden John wished that he could be that for the younger man. Could be the one to hold him, and ground him. 

“Someone,” he cleared his suddenly dry throat, “someone like a Sheriff, perhaps?”

~*~

Jordan felt weak with relief when the question came. 

“Yes,” he smiled, “yes, exactly like a Sheriff.”

His arms began to tremble, and he knew that he either had to lay down again slowly, or he would faceplant right into his pillow. And that would be very undignified. Just as his right arm threatened to give out on him, a strong hand gripped him on his biceps. Steadied him. 

“Easy there, Deputy,” came the rumbled order from his Sheriff, and Jordan could feel tears in his eyes. 

“Yes, Sir,” he murmured very quietly, and let himself be gently laid down again. This time though closer to his Sheriff, with his head in the other man's lap. He put his hand on a thigh, and felt the muscles move underneath his fingers. 

“I'm so out of my depth here,” the Sheriff mumbled, but his right hand stroked through his hair like he was a giant cat, while his left hand rested still on his arm, his thumb lazily drawing circles.

“You're doing great, Sheriff,” Jordan whispered, and closed his eyes. 

“What do you call your dom normally?” 

Jordan opened his eyes at this question, and tensed for a moment. He remembered that one time where he asked his dom if he could call him Sheriff. That night had been incredible, and the dom – unfortunately just someone in transit – had treated him with the utmost care and respect afterward. 

“Master,” he pressed out after what seemed like an eternity for him, “or Sir. And he usually calls me boy.”

“Boy, huh?” He could hear the smile in those words. Those strong hand continued to caress him. 

“So tell me, you've been a good boy?”

A mighty shiver ran over Jordan's body. How often had this question been the prelude to an amazing blow job? And he was severely tempted to turn around, open the Sheriff's fly and suck him deep into his throat. 

“You okay? Did I … did I do something wrong?” Now the Sheriff sounded worried, and Jordan hastily answered, “No! No, you did nothing wrong. If anything … this was a little too close to perfect.”

“What do you mean?”

“What you just said … that's usually an invitation.”

The stroking stopped, and for a long minute there was silence, then came a soft, “Oh!”

Jordan closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable push that would kick him off this lap and would most certainly end the night. 

~*~

An invitation. 

John could imagine what kind of invitation his Deputy was talking about. Involuntarily, he resumed his stroking again. He couldn't imagine taking advantage of the young man like that no matter how 'usual' that was. 

He wanted to hold him, yes. 

Protect him, yes. 

Fuck him, no. 

“Listen, son,” he said, and was a little startled when the young man began to rise from his place on his lap. “Whoa, where do you think you're going?” He grabbed an arm, and pulled his Deputy down again. “I didn't say you could go, did I?” he asked, his voice a little more stern like before. 

“No, Sir,” Jordan mumbled, almost automatically. 

“Good,” John said, gently moving him until he lay again with his head in his lap. “Now listen to me, boy.”

With a deep sigh, Jordan Parrish grew soft and pliant underneath his hands. Gently, he stroked him again. Over his head, down his neck, over his shoulder, and then along his arm. Back, and again from the head down to his fingers. 

“I won't tell you that I understand your needs. Or your urges. But I can tolerate them. And as long as it doesn't interfere with your work, I won't say anything.”

Parrish took a deep breath, apparently to reply something so John squeezed his shoulder gently. “Sssh, I'm not done yet.” 

Slowly, Parrish released his breath and nodded. 

“I might not be able to give you what you need,” John continued, “but I can offer you something else. What I offer you is a place to come to when you're in need of aftercare. That I can provide.”

John could feel the younger man's shoulder relax slightly under his hand. 

“You can ask for it whenever you need it, and how often you need it. I will never judge you, and I don't expect any kind of … payment or whatever your mind might come up with, okay?”

Parrish nodded but remained silent. 

“You can ask for whatever you want, boy. I will give you what I can. What I won't give you is sex. Everything else I will offer gladly.”

All the time while he was talking, he never stopped his stroking. 

“So, any questions?”

“Why are you doing this when you get nothing in return?” Parrish asked after a moment. 

John laughed softly, wound his arms around the younger man, and pulled him closer. “I'm a sucker for cuddles,” he murmured quietly, “so don't think that I won't get anything out of it.”

Hesitantly, Parrish raised his arms, and reciprocated the embrace carefully. “So this is okay?” he asked, and John nodded. 

“Yeah, boy, it's more than okay.”

With a happy sigh, the young man closed his eyes, and relaxed completely. As he grew heavy, John knew that he was falling asleep. Carefully, he pulled the meanwhile almost dry towel from the young man's back, and threw it carelessly to the floor. He felt something small and hart in his backpocket, and carefully pulled it out. It was his cellphone, which reminded him sharply that he still needed to tell Haigh that he wouldn't come back to the station tonight. He sent Haigh a quick text, waited for the reply which came a few seconds later, and shut his phone off. 

Then he let his head drop back onto the couch's back, and closed his eyes, too. This night had been exhausting, while not physical then emotional. 

He knew that come the next morning, the young man's back would hurt like a bitch. He would probably wash it again, put the ointment on, and then they would eventually move back to the couch, to cuddle the Sunday away. He would order food, Chinese perhaps. Or Italian. Pizza was easy to eat with one hand. 

Then, in the evening he would drive him home, and on Monday morning they would meet at the office again, and everything would be the way it was supposed to be. 

Until the next time when he would receive a call from Michael – or from Jordan – to pick up his boy, and deliver the aftercare that the young man needed. 

The end


End file.
